Just Henry

by Michelle Magorian

  ‘Hello, Henry!’ sang elderly Miss Deardon, her white hair only just visible from behind the cash register at the end of the counter. The drawer shot out towards her with a ringing ping as she pulled down the lever at the side.

  ‘We’re a bit short of change in the sixpenny bit and farthing compartments, Mr Jenkins,’ she announced.

  Miss Moira came staggering between the gap in the two counters, a large round cheese in her arms, its skin removed. She swung it on to a marble slab on the left counter by the wire cutter and smiled over the scales beside it, her new National Health glasses misting over. She was always pleased when Henry helped her because he was quick.

  ‘Mr Jenkins,’ Henry started hesitantly. ‘I know my mother ain’t on your delivery list but she was wondering if I could buy her groceries for her today instead of her having to queue. It’s just that she needs to collect something . . . ’

  ‘This won’t become a habit, will it?’

  ‘No, Mr Jenkins.’

  ‘When does school start, by the way?’

  Henry’s heart fell. He had deliberately avoided thinking about the new autumn term. The article and photograph about his stepfather would be out that afternoon in the Sternsea Evening News for all to see. He was sure to be teased about it. Or ignored even more than usual.

  You don’t need friends, his gran had said to him one day, trying to comfort him.

  What do you need friends for when you’ve got yer old gran?

  ‘Monday, Mr Jenkins.’

  ‘I don’t know why the government wants you youngsters to stay on till you’re fifteen. I know lots of lads who want to be out, learning a trade. But then even the ones who’ve learned a trade are called up for National Service! We’ve thousands of homeless people, desperate for a decent roof over their heads, living in train carriages and Army huts. And where are all our newly trained electricians, plumbers and builders, I ask you? They’re out in the middle of nowhere polishing boots and marching up and down.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Jenkins,’ said Henry politely.

  The bell above the door began ringing. A tall gangly sixteen-year-old boy with a scrub of curly hair perched on top of a severe short back and sides was hovering outside. Mr Jenkins let him in. The boy glanced at Henry in a manner that was far from friendly.

  Mr Jenkins gave a weary sigh.

  ‘You can wipe that look off yer face, Frank.’

  ‘Pardon, Mr Jenkins?’

  ‘You’ve got a scowl on you that’d frighten the horses. I’ve told you, he’s not trying to steal your job. And anyway he’s back at school next week.’

  Frank loped over to a peg on the wall behind the counter where a long white apron was hanging.

  ‘Now, Henry,’ continued Mr Jenkins, ‘you’d best get that pavement cleaned and swept. And after all those other jobs you can help with deliveries.’

  ‘But I do the deliveries!’ protested Frank.

  ‘And you’ll still be doing the ones that are a bike ride away. Henry can do the ones within walking distance. Don’t worry, he won’t be taking all your tips.’

  Frank reddened.

  ‘Any complaints?’

  ‘No, Mr Jenkins,’ muttered Frank.

  After work, Henry headed for the Plaza. The middle-aged woman was in the queue again, her hair still tucked up untidily under the same hat, only this time the paperback she was reading had a green cover on it. She looked so comfortable standing there and appeared to be completely unaware of the people around her. He moved closer but still felt too tongue-tied to talk to her. Just then the commissionaire appeared on the steps.

  ‘There’s two seats left in the one and nine’s,’ he announced.

  Henry couldn’t afford one and nine pence. And he wasn’t allowed to stay for the second programme as it was too late. It looked as though he would have to go home, which he was dreading. His mother would have bought copies of today’s Sternsea Evening News by now.

  ‘Millions of ’em,’ he muttered. ‘With pictures of him in them.’

  And then he remembered Uncle Bill mentioning the Dick Barton film the day the newspapermen had dropped in on them.

  ‘The Gaiety!’ he whispered. The film with it was a Randolph Scott western. ‘And they’re both “U”s,’ he blurted out with relief.

  The woman in the hat whirled round and glanced at him. He hesitated for a moment and then began running.

  He found the kitchen door wide open when he arrived back from the Gaiety. His mother, Mrs Henson from next door and young Mrs Wilkins from Number 12 were peering excitedly at a page in the Sternsea Evening News.

  ‘Electrifying results,’ read Mrs Wilkins, ‘as Hatton railwayman steams ahead to success. William Carpenter, a Duel Link driver who drives both steam and electric trains, astounded his teacher, Mr Hubert Cuthbertson of . . . ’ She suddenly noticed Henry and stopped. ‘Hello, Henry. The photograph’s above the grammar school results.’

  ‘You and Gran have been cut out, love,’ said his mother, ‘but don’t take it to heart. I expect they ran out of room.’

  At the top of the page he saw a photograph of his stepfather and mother standing together with Molly. The Carpenter family. Through the window he saw Molly happily playing in the yard with two of the Wilkins’ girls and he was aware of a flicker of jealousy.

  ‘I’ll go and keep Gran company,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘Ain’t you goin’ to read it?’ asked Mrs Henson.

  ‘Later,’ he said, heading for Gran’s room.

  ‘I haven’t even had my tea yet,’ she complained, switching off the wireless.

  ‘Have you seen the photograph?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ and she pursed her lips.

  ‘Mum thinks it was because they didn’t have enough room.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. It was your stepfather’s doing. He stayed outside with the reporter when we went indoors. Remember? Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Henry slowly, his fists clenched.

  ‘We was happy before he came along, weren’t we?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I wish yer dad were ’ere.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Sounds of laughter came from the next room.

  ‘Tell me about him,’ he said. He had heard it all before many times but it comforted him to hear it again.

  ‘The best footballer in the street he was, and he had a beautiful voice on him. When people heard him sing you could have heard a pin drop. A real gentleman. Anyone in a fix, he’d be the first one there. I know I keep saying it, but he should have been decorated.’ They were interrupted by small hurrying footsteps out in the hall and the rattling of the doorknob. ‘Not her again,’ muttered Gran.

  ‘No, Molly,’ they heard Henry’s mother cry, ‘you know you’re not allowed into Auntie’s room.’

  ‘Little brat!’ Gran added.

  Henry stared intently at the photograph of his uniformed father on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Tell me more, Gran.’

  3. Mr Finch & The Third Man

  ‘AND NOW FORM IVA,’ BOOMED THE HEADMASTER ACROSS THE school hall, ‘let me introduce you to your new form master, a man who has survived typhoons in the China Seas, was in the Russian convoys and has served both in the Arctic and in India.’ He indicated a man with a full head of dark brown hair and a generous moustache, standing beside him on the stage. ‘Mr Finch!’

  Mr Finch gazed directly down at them, his eyes never wavering. Out of the corner of his eye Henry noticed three girls giggling. Wearing the usual teacher’s uniform of a tweed jacket and flannel trousers, he stood almost to attention, unlike their other white-haired teachers who had been bent over books for so many years they had a permanent stoop.

  He gave his class a brief nod, and after six-foot-tall Miss Plimsoll had thundered out their school song on the piano, they followed him out in single file in stunned silence. This new man had authority, thought Henry. A clip round the ear from him, he guessed, would hurt more than usual.


  They headed across the rough pitted playground towards the year-old prefab classrooms. He glanced swiftly from side to side but everyone was ignoring him, as usual. It seemed as though no one had seen the photograph in the Sternsea Evening News, much to his relief.

  Pip was sprinting on ahead, trying to keep up with Mr Finch’s forceful stride and grinning up at him like an organ grinder’s monkey.

  He hasn’t got a hope of getting round him, thought Henry. He’s wasting his time.

  As soon as they stepped into the makeshift classroom, a sense of oppression hit Henry. The building was like an oven.

  ‘You, you and you,’ said Mr Finch, pointing to three pupils, ‘open the windows or you’ll be starting your first cookery lesson of the term earlier than planned.’

  To Henry’s amazement they jumped to it with no smart-aleck backchat. Suddenly he realised that while he had been staring at Mr Finch all the others had been quickly grabbing a desk.

  ‘Where’s Woods?’ he asked a boy behind him.

  ‘His dad got him an apprenticeship,’ the boy said. ‘He had his fifteenth birthday in the holidays and Mr Barratt said he didn’t have to come back.’

  Henry had to think quickly. He couldn’t risk having someone he didn’t like sitting next to him for the rest of the year. Already there were only three double desks empty. Two were in the front row, the other in the row behind. He slipped into the one in the second row. To his alarm he saw Jeffries heading in his direction. He kept his head down and avoided looking at him.

  ‘You’d best sit in the front row, lad,’ Mr Finch said to Pip. ‘You’ll be able to see more easily, being on the small side.’ This was unusual. The other teachers usually put Pip in the back row out of sight. Out of the corner of his eye Henry could see Jeffries hovering.

  ‘You,’ said Mr Finch, ‘what’s your name?’

  ‘Jeffries, sir.’

  ‘Why don’t you join . . .?’ He turned to Pip.

  ‘Morgan, sir.’

  Jeffries nodded and slid into the seat beside Pip, and Henry felt safe.

  Although Mr Finch was their form master, he only took them for French, English and History, the very subjects Uncle Bill had taken for his Higher School Certificate. It made Henry feel uncomfortable at first but Mr Finch was so different from his stepfather it didn’t seem to matter. Uncle Bill had never left England, he had worked on the railways during the war, whereas Mr Finch had been all over the world.

  After the inkwells had been filled and their pens were in the grooves at the front of their desks, Mr Finch gave Pip forty pieces of paper to be handed out to the class.

  ‘Before you get the idea that I’m going to ask you to write an essay on what you did in the holidays, I’m not,’ began Mr Finch. ‘However, I’m still going to ask you what you did.’ This was greeted by a stifled groan. ‘But I want a list. I won’t mind if you prefer to draw pictures rather than write. Put your name at the top of the page and only write on one side of the paper. When you’ve finished, put your pens down and turn your papers over. If you went to any matches or cricket fixtures, I’d like to know who won. If you went fishing, I’d like to know what you caught. If you were working or had to help out at home, put it down.’

  This wasn’t like school at all, thought Henry. Eagerly he listed every film he could remember having seen and who had appeared in them, then his favourite ones and what kinds of films they were and why he liked them. After a while he became aware that there was less scratching of nibs around him. He looked up and put his pen down. Jeffries, he noticed, was still writing and Pip looked as if he had drawn diagrams with labels.

  Henry leaned back with his arms folded. Eventually everyone’s paper was turned over.

  ‘Now,’ said Mr Finch, ‘if you could wave a magic wand and wish for something you would really like to do now or in the future, write it down.’

  Several of the girls flung up their arms. Mr Finch picked a girl in the front.

  ‘I want to walk down an aisle in a white dress. Does that count?’

  ‘And I want to be a bridesmaid,’ said the girl next to her.

  ‘So soon?’ murmured Mr Finch gazing at them intently. He sighed. ‘All right. But tell me where you’d like to be married and what you might wear. I want details.’

  ‘Sir!’ blurted out another girl. ‘I’d like to work in a sweet shop.’

  ‘In one where sweets are plentiful and there are no queues?’

  The girl smiled. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Write down what you’d like to have in the shop.’

  More arms shot up.

  ‘Yes, Wilson,’ he said to a lanky freckled-faced boy in the back row.

  ‘I want to be a cowboy.’

  This was greeted by laughter.

  ‘Dealing with cattle or horses? And what kind of horse would you ride?’

  ‘We can wish for anything?’ said the boy next to him.

  ‘Anything. It’s a magic wand, remember.’

  ‘Even go to the moon?’ asked a boy called Johnson, who wore spectacles with lenses so thick they looked like marbles.

  ‘Or train a winning greyhound?’ added another boy.

  ‘Anything, but I’d like details. It can be now or in the future.’

  Henry thought hard. And then he knew. He would be with a film crew, he wrote. He would travel with them all over the country, standing in the background, watching and listening, observing the technicians and actors.

  An image suddenly sprang into his head. He saw himself slamming a clapperboard shut and a voice from somewhere yelling, ‘Action!’

  ‘I need you to weigh and bag up fourteen bags of raisins and fourteen bags of sultanas,’ said Miss Moira, smiling at Henry over the counter. ‘And then after you’ve finished those I need you to fill fourteen one-pound bags with sugar.’

  ‘And mind you weigh them meticulously,’ added Mr Jenkins with raised eyebrows.

  ‘Oh, Mr Jenkins,’ scolded Miss Moira, ‘he always does.’

  ‘Are there any jobs for me tomorrow, Mr Jenkins?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Providing you don’t mind coming in before school.’

  ‘No, Mr Jenkins.’

  ‘Usual jobs then. Windows, pavement and door handle. And you can pop back after school to sweep the yard.’

  ‘Mr Jenkins,’ said Miss Moira hesitantly, ‘what about the flour delivery on Thursday?’

  ‘Frank can help you with that, can’t he?’

  ‘Of course, Mr Jenkins.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Of course there’ll be fewer spillages with Henry,’ she added quietly.

  ‘And we don’t want Mrs Jenkins on the warpath, is that it, Miss Moira?’

  Miss Moira gave a girlish laugh.

  ‘Point taken. He can help you fill the bags with flour. But not a word to Frank.’ And he winked at Henry. ‘I take it you won’t be coming round on Friday afternoon though.’

  ‘No, Mr Jenkins.’

  ‘I don’t know how we put up with him, Miss Moira,’ he said, smiling. ‘So, which cinema is it to be?’

  ‘The Plaza.’

  ‘The Plaza. Ah, Youth! Now go and wash your hands. And don’t forget, Miss Moira will be checking your fingernails!’

  It was going to be a good week, thought Henry. More jobs meant more money, which meant more visits to the cinema and less time at home.

  History was the first lesson on Friday. As soon as Henry entered the classroom he noticed a picture on the wall of a short fat woman in a long black dress with what appeared to be a white handkerchief on her head. She didn’t look too happy. Above her was written QUEEN VICTORIA.

  ‘In three months’ time it will be 1950,’ began Mr Finch. ‘To mark this passage through the half century we are going to be looking at life fifty years ago. In addition to what we’ll be doing in the lessons I will be expecting you all to do a bit of detective work.’

  A hand shot up in the front.

  ‘Yes, Mavis.’

  ‘Do you mean homework, sir?’
r />   ‘In a sense, yes.’

  There was a smothered groan of protest.

  ‘But not on your own. And you’ll have plenty of time. The presentations won’t be till the end of term.’

  ‘Presentations?’ muttered Henry.

  ‘On Monday I asked you to write down what you did in the holidays and what you might wish for if you had a magic wand. That was my way of getting to know you a little better. I am putting you into twelve groups of three and one group of four. The first group will be Jane, Ivy and Doris. You expressed an interest in nursing and looking after babies. Your project is to find out about nursing in 1899. You three,’ he said, pointing to three friends in the front, ‘you will look into marriage in 1899. I want to know about weddings for the rich and the poor.

  ‘Davis, Kemp and Roberts, I want you to look into the lives of people who settled in America fifty years ago. One of you said he would like to live with the Indians. Which Indians? Sioux, Cherokee, Mohican? Find out about their customs and how they were treated then.’

  He then picked a football trio and a greyhound racing trio. Another group of three had to find out about sweet shops.

  ‘Dodge, you will be looking at films. You will be working with Jeffries and Morgan.’

  Henry heard some of his classmates gasp.

  ‘Morgan,’ continued Mr Finch, ‘you expressed interest in being a projectionist, so maybe you could concentrate on how they showed the films then.’

  Pip was nodding and smiling. Henry could hardly make out what Mr Finch said next. The teacher’s voice seemed muffled and a great acid gob of nausea had risen into Henry’s mouth, burning the back of his throat. Through the blur, he heard Mr Finch talking to the other groups.

  ‘Every Friday I’ll see how you’re getting on,’ he said. ‘In December each group will give a short presentation to the class. Raise your arms those of you with grandparents or great-aunts or uncles.’

  Henry slowly raised his hand. He noticed that Jeffries and Morgan didn’t.

  ‘Ask them what fourteen-year-old girls and boys were doing in 1899. And remember, if you listen to what people say, you’ll discover that history lies not only in books but is all around you.’